(no subject)
my boss has me working longer hours but fewer days and i don't mind because i can buy coffee and a muffin and read a book and have it all be okay until twelve noon. plus, i get to put in whatever cd i want at whatever time i want and i don't think any job can beat that, do you?
besides, i've met the most down-to-earth and strange people. there's a man with a german accent that comes in every tuesday and wednesday to make copies of the weekly dowrey newsletter and every time we end up in a discussion about evolution. there's a woman with fake eyelashes and tacky gold bracelets that comes in about once a month. she has no curves and must weigh exactly or just a little less than ninety pounds. she drives a nineteen seventy-something corevette and hates the men i work with. then there's the black woman who comes in every saturday because saturday's are senior discount days. she always smiles and when she laughs, her tummy laughs with her, moving up and down, up and down. just like my grandma's. then there's the lady with mailbox one-eighty-seven who always makes sure to show me pictures of her (now) three month baby. she would always pull me away at work during her eighth month because she was so excited, sixty percent of the reason being: she refused to know the sex. it's a boy, and she's overwhelmed.
i could go on and on, and because people like this make me want to write books, i have to say that i am continuously inspired. why? how? to do what? to live, to do more with my life. to live. LIVE. DON'T YOU GET IT? DON'T YOU FUCKING GET IT?
besides, i've met the most down-to-earth and strange people. there's a man with a german accent that comes in every tuesday and wednesday to make copies of the weekly dowrey newsletter and every time we end up in a discussion about evolution. there's a woman with fake eyelashes and tacky gold bracelets that comes in about once a month. she has no curves and must weigh exactly or just a little less than ninety pounds. she drives a nineteen seventy-something corevette and hates the men i work with. then there's the black woman who comes in every saturday because saturday's are senior discount days. she always smiles and when she laughs, her tummy laughs with her, moving up and down, up and down. just like my grandma's. then there's the lady with mailbox one-eighty-seven who always makes sure to show me pictures of her (now) three month baby. she would always pull me away at work during her eighth month because she was so excited, sixty percent of the reason being: she refused to know the sex. it's a boy, and she's overwhelmed.
i could go on and on, and because people like this make me want to write books, i have to say that i am continuously inspired. why? how? to do what? to live, to do more with my life. to live. LIVE. DON'T YOU GET IT? DON'T YOU FUCKING GET IT?